


Two Wolves

by which_chartreuse



Category: John Wick (Movies), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Crossover, Eventual violence, Gen, Swearing, Will add more tags as I go, trying to remain as canon compliant as possible considering, will add character tags as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 12:17:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19745611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/which_chartreuse/pseuds/which_chartreuse
Summary: John Wick was a legend, on his way out as Frank was on his way up in the Marines. He was the kind of shot that got people joking about an afterlife as a hitman, with the kind of personality that stopped people joking and started them whispering. Frank believed his eyes over the rumors, though, and Wick gave him something to work toward, a level of skill to achieve, to surpass. Frank just hadn’t known he was following the training path of an assassin in the making.But after all, that training would serve both men in their violent means to ends.





	Two Wolves

**Author's Note:**

> I have been fascinated by the idea of a John Wick/Continental Universe & Punisher crossover since Frank zip-lined off that roof in season one, but never got around to it. After I saw Parabellum, I decided to finally try some John Wick fanfic, and Karen Page immediately popped up. And then John was nowhere to be found. So this will serve as the prologue to my Wick/Castle crossover, and we'll see how the rest shakes out.

“Miss Page,” the concierge pronounced her name with such precise care that Karen had the immediate sensation of arriving late to school with a handwritten note. Like the middle school receptionist years before, there was something kind, something stern, but also something slightly embarrassed for her in his voice.

“Yes. I’m here to meet, uh…” She hesitated. If the man knew who she was, he certainly must know why she was there.

And he did. “Mr. Castiglione will be checking out shortly. In the meantime, the manager will see you in the lounge. Please take the stairs to your right.” He gestured with an open palm and a curious smile.

Karen let her gaze linger on the man a moment longer, probing the edges of his façade, but coming away with no more information than before. She followed his gesture and mounted the stairs directing her to the hotel’s lounge.

“Miss Page,” an older gentleman with dark hair and a too toothy smile greeted her from his perch in a wing-backed chair. It was the perfect spot from which to observe all the comings and goings of the large room, and he sat with the assurance of a king. Karen felt her anxiety ratchet up at being addressed by this man. The same two words, but with entirely different feeling behind them. _What had Frank gotten mixed up in now?_

She walked toward him, with a smile on her face and her hand closed around the cool metal of the pistol in her purse. The manager’s eyes shifted from her face to her invisible hand, and the tingling anxiety leapt again. 

“Miss Page,” the man repeated and continued, “the rules of this establishment are quite strict. While I appreciate that said rules are unknown to you, I must warn you that any action you may take on Continental grounds will have swift consequences.”

She paused in front of the manager and he rose with an extended hand to formally meet her. His blue eyes betrayed a cold, calculating mind behind an otherwise congenial demeaner. He had little use for façade or pretense in his own sanctuary. She released her grip on the gun before clasping his offered hand. His handshake was surprisingly limp, but his free hand closed over the top of all, holding her in place.

“I therefore recommend you collect Mr. Castiglione and be on your way. Do not trouble yourself with thoughts of this place again.”

“Is that a threat, Mister…”

“Winston. Please call me Winston,” he said without relinquishing her hand. His eyes were appraising over his smile, and Karen hoped her look matched his, though she could feel her slight tremors being absorbed by the solidity of his hands around her.

“We are aware of your – shall we say capability, Miss Page? But I assure you, no story will be broken here. There is no case to crack. Our reach far exceeds Mr. Fisk’s _valiant_ efforts to seize this city – ”

Karen wrenched her hand from his grasp at mention of Wilson Fisk, civility be damned.

“ – and you will see eternity in four padded walls before you will bring this organization down.” He wrung his hands in a small pantomime of contrition, but his eyes never changed. “That said, we have no fight with you, Miss Page. We have no wish to engage you, or Mr. Castiglione, again. And we shall give you no reason to seek the Continental. So really – ” he settled back in his armchair “ – threats aren’t necessary. Are they?”

His eyebrows raised on the question, but there was no enquiry in the words. He met her bewildered and fearful gaze with another shark’s smile. _Who_ was _this man? What was this_ place _?_

The manager’s eyes shifted over her shoulder, and she turned to see Frank coming toward her.

He was un-obviously injured. There was a faint abrasion across one cheek, and an angry bruise peeked over the high collar of his shirt, but he walked steadily on his feet and wasn’t actively bleeding anywhere Karen could see. In fact, Karen had only seen Frank so smartly dressed and clean in photographs from before.

Frank’s arm brushed her shoulder as he passed, and Karen sensed him judging the weight of the bag that hung there as his dark eyes met hers. But then he reached for the manager with a respectful handshake and a gruff “Thank you, sir.”

“Francis,” the manager acknowledged, capturing Frank’s hand the same way he had Karen’s, and it struck Karen that he was no longer pretending not to know Frank’s identity. “I trust we won’t be seeing you again?” Another question that wasn’t a question.

Frank held the manager’s look with controlled disgust, but nodded simple assent. The appraising gaze stayed on Frank half a beat before the manager released his hand. Frank’s fingers immediately found Karen’s, twining between them and pulling her toward his radiating heat. Karen’s attention fell on their laced fingers, then swept back up to his dark eyes, stunned.

His eyebrows in his hairline at the unexpected display, the manager nodded their way. “Very good. Best of luck to you, Mr. Castiglione. Miss Page.” He nodded again, the predatory smile reestablished on his face, and Karen let Frank lead them to the stairs, through the lobby, and out the door, drifting in his aura of warmth and safety.

The concierge stood beside the doorman on the front steps of the hotel, holding the leash of a large dog.

“Mr. Wick requested you remain custodian of the dog, Mr. Castiglione,” he said as he held out the leash.

“‘Course he did,” Frank rumbled, accepting the dog with his free hand.

“Best wishes on your travels, sir. Miss Page,” he acknowledged them both before retreating into the hotel.

The feeling of being uncertain and slightly ashamed returned, replacing Karen’s intuition for impending violence with something less fearful and more jittery with exhaustion. She stared back through the glass doors of the hotel even as Frank lead them across the street and toward her car.

The pressure of Frank’s fingers around hers, squeezing steadily, brought Karen’s spinning thoughts to a halt and her eyes back to him.

“Are you okay to drive,” he asked.

She was immediately sharp and focused again, ready to chew him out and interrogate all at once. But he stopped her.

“I know you’ve got questions. This isn’t the place. I’ll tell you everything I can, but we gotta get out of the city first. _I_ gotta get out of the city. Now. So…” His dark eyes stared her down, his agitation and fear evident behind his carefully controlled features. “Are you good to drive?”

~``~

Karen drove, white-knuckling her way out of the city to keep her hands from shaking against the steering wheel, as Frank barked last second turns and direction changes. Once they left Manhattan, it wasn’t clear if Frank actually knew where they were going, calling out seemingly random turns that wound out into rural Jersey. But any attempt to question him was met with gruff assurance and brushed aside. Finally they turned onto a gated drive, and, holding Karen back with one flat palm, Frank got out of the car.

He pulled a gun from an unseen holster and scanned up the driveway along his sightline. With one hand thrust back, he held Karen off, but the dog whined pathetically until she opened the window allowing him to jump out. Apparently satisfied with the safety of the area, Frank punched a code into the gate box and motioned Karen up the drive before him, the dog leaping ahead.

The gate rolled back to reveal the charred remains of a once-great modern home, its grandeur reduced to twisted beams and scorched concrete. Shattered glass littered the lawn, and Karen stopped the car well back from the fan of destruction. She stepped gingerly through the debris and joined Frank and the dog on the broken threshold.

“What is this place, Frank?” She wanted to sound stern, even scornful, but couldn’t keep the note of melancholy awe out of her voice.

“This was John Wick’s house,” he replied, scanning her face with an inscrutable look. The dog woofed softly at the name and padded into the cavern of the house.

“‘Mr. Wick’… The dog’s owner?” Karen remembered the concierge’s message and Frank nodded. She turned her attention back to the ruins and the dog snuffling in the rubble. _How did this happen?_

She had seen this sort of destruction before, during the Lewis Wilson bombings; like a series of small explosions coalescing into one giant blast. But this had been somebody’s home, not a government building.

The dog followed Frank, and Karen followed the dog, ignoring Frank’s command for her to stay back. They descended into a mostly intact basement, not burned but scorched, and still damp from the firefighting efforts. In the light of her cell phone, Frank found a patch of imperfectly cured and cracked cement and broke it apart with a single swing of a nearby hammer. He stripped away his suit jacket, awkwardly placing it around Karen’s shoulders, then went to work opening the floor. A wooden chest appeared, its lid lifting to reveal a cache of guns and rows of golden coins.

“Who…?” Karen had had enough of evasion, was at wit’s end with unanswered questions festering into anxiety. If she hadn’t been so relieved to hear Frank’s voice rumbling across the lines early that morning, hadn’t been drawing some semblance of calm from his presence these last few hours, she would have ripped him apart and walked away as soon as they’d crossed out of New York. But this was too much. Frank had known this was waiting, had brought Karen into a new and dangerous unknown without explanation. The last fragment of resolve to maintain composure was gone now. “Who the hell is John Wick?”

**Author's Note:**

> I have about half of a first chapter in reserve, but would prefer to have at least two more before posting again. If you are interested in the idea of these characters sharing a world, please let me know through comments, or drop quick kudos. Like many (most?) of us, feedback keeps me motivated!


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